Nadie encendía las lámparas

A/N: I don't know diddly-squat about Rawlins. So, although there is a Rawlins Wyoming, for all intents and purposes, the one you see here is completely one-hundred-percent fabricated. I just picked a spot on the map that is ostensibly partway between South Dakota and Palo Alto.

8/?

They stop for gas about three and a half hours into the trip, Sam cursing at the ancient, clumsy pump while Dean does his best to stretch out his sore leg, straightening his knee with a wince.

He waits till Sam goes into the self-proclaimed "Convenience Shack" to pay and then tosses back a few painkillers before heading inside to grab some coffee and a pack of cigarettes.

The going is slow, his leg protesting the hours spent in one position, and he leans heavy on the cane.

An old woman roughly the size of a six year-old holds the door open for him and gives him a pitying glance, and he grits his teeth and forces out a thank you, though what he'd really like to do is slam the door on her white-gloved finger.

Christ. Old ladies holding the door for him. Chivalry isn't dead, it's just in some sort of fucked-up coma.

Bells jingle as he enters and Sam looks up from where he's examining a dusty rack of what apparently passes for sandwiches in this gas station.

"Hey," he says. "Egg salad, or tuna?"

"Dude, I'd avoid the mayonnaise if I were you," Dean says, coming to stand next to him. Sam tilts his head and they contemplate the options.

"Go for the ham and cheese," he advises. "Can't really fuck that up. Cheese doesn't go bad."

"What the hell are you talking about? Course it does. It gets all moldy."

"Cheese is a kind of mold."

"No, it's not. It's the result of an enzyme process."

"Whatever, college boy. Just choose your fucking sandwich." Dean shuffles over to the coffee machine and fills a massive Styrofoam cup, his mouth watering at the smell. He can tell it's a little burned, but whatever. Coffee equals good.

"You hungry?" Sam asks.

"Nah," Dean replies, but grabs a bag of peanut m&m's when they get to the counter. Asks for three packs of Camels from the display behind the register and catches Sam's dirty look. "What?" he says. "They're cheaper here than in California, I guarantee you."

They walk back out to the car, Sam pacing his steps to match Dean's slower ones, and Dean doesn't mind. It feels like a tiny miracle, actually, him and Sam, here together. At a gas station in bum-fuck where-the-fuck wherever. Almost like a carbon copy of practically every day of their lives since Dean was five, every day up until four years ago when Sam got that letter in the mail.

Almost like a copy, except not, because now there are two of them, not three.

What's that old saying, two's company, three's a crowd?

What a fuckin' lie.

Three is the magic number, always has been. Three strikes and you're out. Three wishes. Three Winchesters.

"So," Dean says as they climb into the car. "I was looking through Dad's journal and I found some interesting stuff."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, his eyes straight ahead as he starts the engine.

"Yeah. He's been tracking weather patterns, crop failure, stuff like that. I think if we could get a handle on some of these patterns, it would point us straight to Dad."

"Hang on," Sam starts, but Dean interrupts him.

"Sam, this is shit we could do lying on a couch. We've got to do something, man, and this is easy stuff. Little computer work, reading a couple newspapers. That's it."

A beat and then Sam says, "You're right. We'll check it out. I've got a friend who wants to be a climatologist, actually. I bet he's got a ton of data."

"Great." Dean lights a cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame, the wind rushing through the half-open window as they accelerate.

"I was thinking," Sam says after a moment. "About, you know, what kind of job you could get around campus. Something not too far from the apartment, something where you wouldn't have to be on your feet all day."

Dean grunts, picks a fleck of tobacco off his tongue.

"There's this garage about three blocks from us," Sam continues, "and I know for a fact that their classic-car guy just moved out to New York. So they're probably looking for someone."

"That right? I'll check it out," Dean says, and realizes that he really would, if he were staying. He's always been good with cars, picked up a few odd jobs at auto-body shops here and there, always enjoyed himself. Always felt a little sad to leave.

"You and Dad still running those credit-card scams?"

"Yup."

"Well, you're going to have to stop. It's too risky, if you've got a permanent residence."

Dean is silent, hoping Sam will take that as acquiescence.

"I talked to Jess," Sam continues, "back in the gas station. She's been clearing out this room we've got, we use it mostly for storage. It's pretty small, but it'll fit a bed and a night-table and a place to put your clothes."

"She didn't have to do that, man," Dean says, a twinge of guilt flickering through him.

"No, don't worry about it. She's happy to."

For the first time, Dean really wonders about Jess, as a three-dimensional person, not just as the cute blond he saw in his brother's wallet. How the hell does she feel about Sam toting home his crippled brother, foisting him on their lives like an unexpected anvil?

"What'd you tell Jess, anyway?" he asks. "I take it she doesn't know about what we do."

"No, and she's never going to." Sam shoots him a warning glance. "I told her you work construction and fell off a building."

"Jesus, man, seriously? You couldn't have chosen something a little more exciting? You should have told her I was a fireman!"

Sam laughs.

"But honestly," Dean continues. "She's cool with this?" Not that she's ever going to have to deal with him, of course. He's just curious.

"More or less. She's cool with pretty much everything."

"I don't want to be a homewrecker, man."

"Dean," Sam says seriously. "When you meet her, you'll understand. And she's going to love you. You both have the same way of bringing really disgusting jokes into any conversation."

Dean says nothing, flicks his cigarette out the window, watches in the rearview as it sends up sparks from the pavement.

His can't help but feel guilty as he realizes that the only thing he'll be bringing this girl is grief.

It's about eight o'clock when they get into Rawlins, and they cruise slowly through the darkened streets, looking for the telltale neon of a motel.

"That looks good," Dean says, pointing to "Best" motor lodge. "I like the name. Very optimistic."

"Looks like a shithole," Sam mutters, but he pulls into the parking lot.

"You've just been spoiled for too long," Dean says as Sam slides out of the seat. He watches his brother's lanky form move across the parking lot towards the main office, and flips on the overhead light, digging the journal out from the duffle resting under his foot, tries not to gasp in pain as he jars his leg. Fucker's sore.

He flips quickly to a bookmarked page towards the end of the journal, re-reads what's written there under the name "Rawlins, Wyoming."

Jams the book back in the duffle as he sees Sam come back out, floppy hair bouncing.

"Room nineteen," his brother says, getting back behind the wheel. "Seventy-nine bucks for the two of us. I said I'd go back and pay as soon as we were settled."

"May as well use these cards while we can," Dean says, opening the glove compartment and rifling through his I.D. box. "You feel like being Mr. Howard R. Diaz tonight?"

Sam looks like he's going to protest, but then grins. "I could do that."

The room is small but not tiny, decorated in a motif of yellowish browns and a strange baby blue that appears in odd places, running along the trim of the molding, woven through the pillowcases.

"Ugly," Sam comments, tossing his duffle on his bed. "All right, I'm going to go pay, and then let's get something to eat? I'm starving."

Dean waves him off, pretending to unpack his duffle, but as soon as Sam leaves the room he limps into the bathroom to get some water and take his pills.

The bathroom is like stepping into a pool; everything in it is that same baby blue, from the tiles to the towels. Coupled with the yellow light it casts an unforgiving greenish glow to Dean's skin as he looks in the mirror. He studies himself, frowns. Are the circles under his eyes really that dark?

He goes back out and sits on the bed staring at the no-smoking sign above the door, tells it out loud to go fuck itself. He thinks about going outside but his leg is killing him and he's not sure he can get up again now that he's sat down.

He knows he's been sitting in the car all day and it would do him some good to move around, but it feels so relieving to stretch out like this, on the bed. His knee still won't straighten out all the way, and it's worse right now than it's been for a while.

Sam comes back in, jingling the car keys.

"You ready to get some food? Lady at the front desk says there's some kind of cheap tavern right down the road."

Dean struggles up from the low bed, and it's awkward, more difficult than it should be. Sam is watching him with narrowed brows.

"You need a hand?"

"I got it."

He's on his feet, finally, and they make their way out to the car. He feels like his leg is getting stiffer by the second, and tucking it back into the front seat of the Impala is like torture. He wishes he had taken another Vicodin, but he really doesn't want to end up like that doctor on t.v., the cranky one who pops pills like they're candy.

The restaurant truly is close, thankfully, and as they pull into the tiny parking lot, Dean can feel his stomach start to grumble. He didn't even realize he was hungry until he looked in the glowing window and saw some bald guy about to take a bite of a huge burger.

"Shit," Sam says, his eyes moving over the cars. "There's nowhere to park."

"Right there," Dean says, "right in front of the door."

"That's handicapped parking. We'll get towed."

"Dude," Dean says, waving his hands at his leg, which pulses out an answering throb of pain like it knows he's talking about it. "Handicapped here."

"You got a permit?"

"Yeah, they gave me the little sign thing when I got out of the hospital. But no WAY am I putting that on my car." He digs through his wallet, comes out with the pass. "Here."

Sam looks at it for a second. "Huh. Awesome. I guess."

"Every cloud's got its silver-bullet lining, Sammy."

Sam's halfway to the door when he realizes that Dean's not following. Doubles back, sees that Dean is still sitting in the front seat, passenger door open, legs out of the car.

"What's up?" Sam asks, impatient, hungry.

"It's nothing," Dean says. "I'm just thinking."

"Well, come on."

"You go ahead, get us a table. I'll be right in."

"Dude." Sam folds his arms, feeling annoyance coming on, but then takes a second look at his brother's pale face. There's sweat beading on his brow and his breath is coming too fast. "Hey. Hey, Dean. You okay?"

Dean doesn't say anything, just doubles up a little, fists tight in his lap.

Sam feels a spike of panic sing through his blood and he drops to his knees beside his brother. "Dude, talk to me, look at me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Go inside," Dean says, after a long moment, "I'll be fine."

"I'm not leaving you out here like this, are you crazy?"

"It's nothing – leg cramp –"

"What can I do? Can I help?'

Dean shakes his head, rocks back and forth a little.

"Hey, hey, I haven't seen you take any meds today. Did you skip something? Forget something?" Sam curses himself, thinking of that yellow folder. Great caretaker he's turning out to be.

"Been taking them." Dean shudders a breath, grips the edge of the seat.

"Is there anything? Anything you can take?"

"No. Yeah. Sam."

"What? What?"

"In my duffle, side pocket. Brown bottle."

Sam leans over Dean to the space in the passenger seat where he's been using his bag as a footrest. Rummages semi-frantic through the pockets, finds the bottle. Twists the cap off. "How many?"

"Two."

He shakes two out and puts them into his brother's hand. "You need water?"

Dean twitches his head no, swallows them down, grits his teeth.

Sam wants to say something else, wants to do something else, but he's helpless in the face of his brother's pain. He puts his hand on Dean's bent back, tentatively rubs slow, smooth circles like their father used to do to get them to sleep. The only sound is Dean's quick, sharp breathing and the rush of cars on the freeway.

Finally, Sam hears his brother's breath even out, and he takes his hand away as Dean raises his head, looking washed out and exhausted.

"Dude," he says. "That SUCKED."

"What the hell was that?" Sam asks. "What were those pills?"

"Muscle spasm," Dean says. "Muscle relaxants. Happened a couple times in the hospital but so far I've been all right." He breathes in and out for a couple beats. Sam crouches next to him, waiting.

"Okay," Dean says finally. He reaches out and grabs Sam's shoulder. "Help me up."

Once on his feet, Dean holds onto Sam for just a moment longer, eyes shut, but then releases him and grabs his cane. "Food," he says. "Let's go."

"Dude, you sure you're okay? We could go back to the motel and –"

"I'm good."

Sam's about to protest, about to manhandle Dean back into the car, but he catches the stubborn set of his brother's jaw and nods instead, offering his arm, which Dean ignores.

The entrance is only about ten feet away, but the going is slow. Sam keeps his hand by Dean's back, just in case, and has to grab his elbow once when he stumbles on the doorjamb.

The inside of the place is bright and loud after the dark silence of the parking lot, and both Dean and Sam blink a little as they enter.

"Booth for two?" asks a harried-looking young hostess, not waiting for their answer before starting down the aisle.

"Smoking?" Dean calls after her, and Sam can see him trying to pick up his pace a little, catch up with her. He puts a restraining hand on Dean's arm and isn't surprised when it's knocked away.

"This is a smoke-free facility," the hostess declares importantly, setting down two menus on a booth in the back. She waits impatiently as they make their way up the aisle, then says before they can sit down, "Your waitress will be right with you," and hurries away.

"Jesus," Dean says, lowering himself into the booth with a grimace of pain. "What's her problem? It's not THAT busy in here." He sticks his cane under the table and carefully stretches his leg, trying to keep it out of the aisle.

"That girl was like, twelve," Sam says, unfolding his menu, pretending that he's not watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. His brother is still pale, but his face has smoothed out and he's breathing normally.

"I'm fine," Dean says, not looking up from studying the menu.

Sam ducks his head, caught. "Uh, I think I'm gonna get the meatloaf."

"You're a speed-reader, you know that? I'm still on appetizers." He looks up, hopeful. "Hey, you want those buffalo things?"

"Sure."

Dean smiles, hums to himself a little, peruses the menu.

The waitress appears above them, young and tired with a hard, pretty face and a mane of curly brown hair. She pastes on a toothy grin. "Hey, my name's Jen, I'll be your server tonight, can I start you off with some drinks?"

Dean looks up, smiles wide and warm and appreciative. Sam feels a little jolt in his stomach even as he rolls his eyes. He had almost forgotten that smile. He looks up to see Jen's official façade melt a little as she smiles back, genuine this time.

"Gimme whatever's on tap," Dean says, folding his menu. "And a glass of milk. Please."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up under his bangs.

Jen looks at him expectantly.

"Uh, same for me, please. Without the milk. And—" he looks to Dean. "We ready to order?"

"Cheeseburger," Dean says. "Everything. Oh, and some of those buffalo things. The appetizer."

"Wings or fingers?"

"Without the bones."

"Fingers, then," Jen says, making a note. "And for you?"

"The meatloaf, please."

"Okee-dokee. I'll be right back with your drinks." She smiles brightly and swishes away.

"Oh, hey, uh, Jen?" Dean calls. She turns back. "You got any local newspapers around here?"

"I'll see what I can do," she promises, and disappears into the kitchen.

"Milk?" Sam asks, unable to get his mind around it. "Really?"

"Calcium," Dean mutters, playing with the salt shaker. "S'posed to help prevent those cramp things." He kneads his temples, shuts his eyes. "Christ, I need a cigarette."

"What you NEED is to cut back, dude."

"I know."

"I'm surprised you're not hacking and coughing all over the place."

Dean laughs. "Did you know that hydrocodone is a cough suppressant?"

"So?"

"So, do you have any idea how much Vicodin I ingest daily?"

Sam is quiet for a moment, because no, he has no idea. He has to learn to pay better attention to these things. He shakes his head. "I'm serious, man. It's like hanging out with a bonfire. Except you smoke more."

"Can we please postpone our discussion about the dangers of smoking until we leave this lovely smoke-free facility? It's like torture."

The waitress – Jen – comes back with their drinks and a rolled-up newspaper. "This what you were looking for?" she asks.

"Perfect," Dean says, and Sam narrows eyes.

"What do you want with that?"

"Oh, just curious," Dean says, flipping through the pages with apparent idleness. But Sam can see intent behind his gestures, can see his brother's eyes flick searchingly over each word.

Sam reaches over and yanks the newspaper out of Dean's hands. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Dean says, reaching back, but Sam's not buying it. He shuffles through the pages, not sure what he's looking for.

"Give it back, Sam," Dean says, his voice low and dangerous, but Sam's not twelve any more and that voice doesn't scare him. Something's up. He can feel it.

Sports page, local arts page, articles about oil refineries, articles about the farmer's market… nothing that stands out. Until —

Sam flips the paper upside down and shoves it at his brother. "This what you were looking for, Dean?"

Dean glances down at the headline Sam's showing him.

Mysterious Disappearances Continue to Baffle Local Police.

He looks up at his brother, eyes weary.

"Yeah."